The afternoon of Tisha B'Av has to be one of the oddest moments of the Jewish liturgical year. It just feels strange.

This morning was the only morning of the entire year in which tradition says we do not wear a tallit for the morning service. For a person who davens (prays) regularly, the idea of saying the morning blessings and hearing the Torah read without a tallit on the shoulders just feels wrong.

The two shins on the head tefillin can be seen as paired opposites that, together, form a whole. We can see despair and hope as such a pair—each needed to complete the whole.

In the afternoon, it gets even stranger. This is the only afternoon of the year that one is supposed to wear tefillin for the afternoon service. If that doesn't wreak havoc on your spiritual equilibrium, the haftarah reading for Tisha B'Av afternoon will.

We have just spent the last twenty-or-so hours in the land of spiritual grief, reading the book of Lamentations both last night and this morning. Lamentations is the book that, at its cheeriest, asks God how much longer we must suffer. Perhaps we also have read kinnot, poems for mourning the destruction of the Temple. Then, on Tisha B'Av afternoon, the sound of the words changes completely. The haftarah is Isaiah 55:6 - 56:8, one of the most beautiful passages in all the prophetic writings. Isaiah inspires us with visions of a time of utter redemption:

The foreigners who attach themselves to Adonai to serve God and to love the name of Adonai to be God's servants—those who keep Shabbat from profanation and hold fast to My covenant—I will bring them to My holy mountain and I will rejoice in them in My house of prayer. Their burnt offerings and sacrifices shall be accepted upon My altar, for My house shall be called a house of prayer for all nations. (Isaiah 56:6-8)It is one of the most hopeful and optimistic passages in the entire Hebrew Bible. It announces a time to come when all of humanity will be united in God. There will be no more distinctions between Jew and gentile. All will be one.

Why on earth do we read this at the end of Tisha B'Av, a day that peers into the abyss of human cruelty and despair? It is because it is only after we have taken that journey into the abyss that we can finally, truly, see the light of hope.

Hope is not just wishing for the best. Hope is what we experience after we have known despair and, yet, choose to see that it need not always be that way. You can only know hope after you have seen just how bad things can be. It is only after that experience that you can turn your life around and know that real joy is not just "having a good time." It is the feeling that your life has been reclaimed and restored by something beyond yourself.

That is where we want to get to before the strange journey of Tisha B'Av has been completed. We want to know that our highest hopes can be fulfilled, not despite life's torments, but because we have transcended that pain and risen higher because of it.

I saw two very different rituals today relating to the same human experience. I saw two different ways of responding to loss and grief. I'll describe them and let you decide which is best for you.

The first was a funeral for the non-Jewish relative of a congregant. The minister emphasized that we were "celebrating the life" of the deceased. There were references to our happiness that he had gone to a "better place." The minister even told a joke during the service that had the mourners laughing heartily.

"The Grieving Women" by Albert Bloch (1882-1961)

My second experience today with grief was at the service this evening for Tisha B'Av, which began tonight at sunset, the darkest day of the Jewish year. We read the book of Lamentations and studied a text from the Babylonian Talmud that meditated upon the suffering the world endures because of baseless hatred. We grieved the brokenness of the world as if we were sitting shivah. There was no celebration of life and no rejoicing in an expected redemption to come. No jokes.

I think I understand the approach that the minister was taking in leading the funeral. I think I understand how it is comforting to help people put their grief aside and remember that the only reason why losing someone is so painful is because of love. By celebrating the life of a loved one, we remember why the loss hurts and we remember that death does not end the joy we feel in recalling the person's life and gifts. It is an approach that I understand, but it is one also that I reject.

Tisha B'Av is not a funeral, but the way we mark this darkest day says something about the Jewish attitude toward grief. As the rabbis teach, "At a time of joy be joyous. At a time of mourning, mourn" (Genesis Rabbah 27:7). Judaism does not try to allay grief with talk of celebration and God's glorious heaven. Grief is real and it hurts. Explaining it does not make it hurt any less and it does not, in the end, help people to "get over it." Jewish tradition says that we need to look squarely into the abyss of grief and acknowledge its reality. We do not turn away from our pain.

Today is Tisha B'Av. It is a day for confronting our grief for the broken state of the world. This world is in such pain that it must require at least one day of putting aside the happy talk of love, joy and redemption. This world deserves at least one day for us to cry, fast, mourn and deeply feel our sorrow, without sentimental palliatives, without the cover-up of false joy, and without jokes.

If we spend one day of the year really feeling just how bad the world can get, and just how awful human beings can treat each other, maybe we will spend the other 364 days working harder to fix it. Maybe we will spend more of our lives working to create true joy, instead of pretending that we are laughing while our hearts are crying.

When we need help in life, we turn to others for advice and guidance. What happens, though, when there is no one else to turn to? Where do we go for guidance when even the advisors are in need of guidance?

In the Torah, Moses was the ultimate authority for all disputes. Exodus describes how the people "brought the most difficult cases to Moses" (Exodus 18:26).

But who decides the cases when they are too difficult for Moses? There are three times in Torah when Moses cannot answer a question himself and brings a case to the highest authority, directly to God.

Early in the book of Numbers, Moses was approached by a group of men who were ritually unclean during the time of the Passover festival. They want to know what they should do, given that they were not able partake in the obligatory Passover offering because of their impurity. Moses turns the question over to God. He says, "Stand still so I can hear what Adonai commands for you" (Numbers 9:8). God instructs that the men should make the Passover offering a month later.

Later, while the Israelites were traveling through the desert, a man was found desecrating Shabbat by gathering wood on the day of rest. Not knowing what the law and punishment were for such a case, the people brought the man to Moses. Only then did God tell Moses what the proper ruling was in that case; the man was stoned to death (Numbers 15:32-36).

Finally, we read about the five daughters of Zelophechad who brought a case to Moses in which they claimed the right to inherit property because their father died without leaving a male heir. Again, Moses heard what the women had to say, and then, "Moses brought their case close before Adonai" (Numbers 27:5). God ruled in favor of the women and their right to perpetuate their father's name by inheriting their father's portion of land.

But, how does this help us? When we have an ethical dilemma, a dispute, or a problem in our lives, we cannot do what Moses did. We cannot just pick up the phone and talk directly to God to receive the guidance that will tell us what to do.

Or, maybe, we can. A verse in this week's Torah portion (Devarim) suggests that bringing our questions to God is a path that is available to everyone.

In the first chapter of the book of Deuteronomy God instructed the Israelites, "You shall give no recognition to rank in rendering judgment; you shall hear both the small and the great alike. You shall not fear anyone, for judgment belongs to God. You shall bring a matter that is too difficult for you close to Me and I shall hear it" (Deuteronomy 1:17).

Here we have God actually instructing the Israelites to do exactly what Moses did when they have questions they cannot answer. God says: "Bring the matter to Me." How are we supposed to do that?

Obviously, it is not going to be by phone. However, a close reading of the verse suggests a path for hearing God's answers to our deepest questions: "Give no recognition to rank… hear both the small and the great alike… do not fear anyone…"

Bringing difficult questions to God—whether they are legal cases or the questions we keep locked up in our own hearts—is what we do when we let go of all our preconceptions. We bring ourselves close to God when we recognize that there is, in reality, no difference between human beings—the small and the great are all alike. When you let go of the idea that you are less worthy than others, or when you release yourself from the grip of ego and arrogance, you are more likely to find your own answers to questions about what God wants from you.

We also bring our questions to God when we release ourselves from fear. Fear is our inbred response to situations that call for "fight or flight" reaction. Yet, when fear is triggered by situations that are not truly life threatening, it can incapacitate us. Fear and anxiety keep us from seeing the truth of the moment—where we stand and what our choices are. Letting go of fear is a way of "letting God." Releasing ourselves from things we need not fear, we discover God's direction.

When we are able to place ourselves into this mindset—free of despair, arrogance and fear—then we are ready to bring our deepest and most difficult questions to God: "Who am I?" "What is the purpose of my life?" "What am I supposed to do?" When you recognize that all your previously held notions about yourself are fantasies, when you recall that life was given to you as a gift, when you know yourself to be a part of God, you will get your answers.

There are times when you just cannot help thinking that there is something deeply wrong with the world. We seem to be going through one of those times right now.

Last Wednesday, six people were killed by a bus bomb in Bulgaria. The targets of the attack were Israelis, including children, on a beach vacation. A few days later, a man, armed to the teeth, opened fire on a theater in Aurora, Colorado. Twelve people were killed.

James Holmes, the accused Aurora Shooter, became a face of the world's madness during this painful week. There are times when you just can't help thinking there is something deeply wrong with the world.

In Syria, government-backed troops are sending rocket fire into Aleppo, the country's second largest city, and the death toll keeps rising. The coming of the London Summer Olympics reminds us that we are now approaching the fortieth anniversary of the massacre in which eleven Israeli athletes and coaches were murdered by Palestinian terrorists at the 1972 Munich games.

During times like these, we cannot help remember just how out of whack this poor world is and just how much we are surrounded by madness, violence, suffering and grief. We wonder how to reconcile this world with faith in a loving, all-powerful God.

There are no clear, definitive answers to the questions of suffering and evil. The world is as it is. We do know, though, that we have some ability to change it. Not all the blame can be placed on God. It is up to us to act to confront evil, to create peace, to cure illness, and to ameliorate suffering.

Sometimes we feel unequal to the task. Sometimes, we are in despair. The world's problems are vast and our power can feel puny. That feeling can cause us even more suffering.

This Shabbat will be Shabbat Chazon, the "Sabbath of Vision" that precedes Tisha B'Av. This coming Saturday night, we will listen to the words of the Book of Lamentations that bewails the destruction of Jerusalem. Throughout the book, we hear the cry of despair that still echoes in the world.

My eyes are spent with tears, My heart is in tumult, My being melts away Over the ruin of my poor people, As babes and sucklings languish In the squares of the city.They keep asking their mothers, “Where is bread and wine?” As they languish like battle-wounded In the squares of the town, As their life runs out In their mothers’ bosoms.What can I take as witness or liken To you, O Fair Jerusalem? What can I match with you to console you, O Fair Maiden Zion? For your ruin is vast as the sea: Who can heal you? (Lamentations 2:11-13)We, too, wonder: Who can heal our broken world? Who will put an end to the hatred and evil that makes people kill the innocent? Who will stand against the mad rage that poisons our society? Who will stop the wars that still kill children in the arms of their mothers?

The answer, of course, is that we human beings must be the ones to do it—but we don't have to do it alone. The famous second-to-last verse of the book of Lamentations tells us, "Turn us, Adonai, to You and we shall be returned.Renew us as at the beginning" (Lamentations 5:21). When we turn away from evil and allow God to rule over our lives, we restore the world to its original state of balance and peace. God does not wave a magic wand that makes the misery we inflict upon each other disappear. Rather, our faith is in a God whom we experience in our own determination to end misery ourselves. God shows us the way. God turns us back to the right direction, but it is up to us take the steps toward our own renewal. We know what we need to do; God has taught us. We need to be the ones who replace hatred with understanding, who vanquish terrorism with justice, who take guns out of the hands of madmen, and who dismantle despotism and install freedom. There is something deeply wrong with the world we live in—its ruin is as vast as the sea—but we have the power to do something about it. We begin by heeding and obeying the voice that tells us: "Turn!"

I spent last week at a retreat with the Institute for Jewish Spirituality. A group of 35 rabbis, cantors, Jewish educators and lay leaders spent five days studying texts, meditating, practicing yoga, singing, worshiping, and (I don't exaggerate) revitalizing North American Judaism.

Rabbis and cantors participating in the Institute for Jewish Spirituality's Hevraya program.

I am sure that in the coming months I will write here about some of my learning from this retreat, especially as we approach the High Holy Days. For now I just want to offer an unpaid, unsolicited advertisement for the Institute and my arguments for why its work is so important. Whether we care to admit it or not, Judaism is in crisis. The number of Jews who have an adult-level understanding of Judaism, a heartfelt attachment to Jewish tradition, and a regular Jewish spiritual practice is dwindling. The reason why most Jews know little and do less is truly depressing: No one has ever inspired them to seek more.

There is a tremendous need for Jewish leaders who can engage today's Jews in meaningful study of Jewish tradition that speaks to the spiritual concerns and challenges of people's lives. There is a need for leaders who can create worship experiences that are lively, passionate and joyful to make people want to come back to the synagogue regularly. There is a need for leaders who can teach practices like meditation and yoga in a Jewish context to draw today's seekers into a renewed awareness of Judaism as a source of spiritual inspiration.

Filling that need is what the Institute strives to do. It does so, first, by helping Jewish clergy develop and nurture their own spiritual lives. It is not possible to inspire others if your own spiritual life is uninspired. The Institute's retreats give rabbis and cantors the tools they need to become exemplars of vibrant, living Judaism.

Last week's retreat in rural Connecticut included teachings by Rabbi Edward Feld on the poetry of the High Holy Days liturgy and by Rabbi Rolando Matalon on using the music of Middle Eastern and North African Jewish communities to revitalize worship. Meditation with Rabbi Jonathan Slater, yoga with Rabbi Myriam Klotz, and beautifully led worship services by retreat participants created an experience that has me feeling recharged and renewed.

Every rabbi and cantor needs to do something like this on a regular basis. Every Jewish spiritual leader needs to tend to his or her own spiritual fire in order to stoke the flames of a Jewish community that is in need of revitalization.

In ancient Israelite society, which had no police force or prisons, justice often was left in the hands of ordinary people. When there was a murder, it was up to the near relatives of the victim to exact justice by killing the murderer.

What would happen, though, when there was an accidental killing? There is a danger that a never-ending cycle of revenge killings would spiral into a bloodbath.

That is the reason for the institution of the "City of Refuge," which is described in this week's double Torah portion, Matot-Mas'ei. The Torah describes how a person who had killed someone could flee to one of these six cities—which were scattered throughout the land to make them accessible to all—and find protection from the victim's avenging relatives. In the City of Refuge, the killer could receive a fair trial to determine whether he or she was guilty of intentional murder (Numbers 35:9-15).

Of course, there is no need for such an institution today. In our society, we do not condone any kind of revenge killing. We empower the police to arrest and the courts to adjudicate people who are accused of murder. Yet, the law of the Six Cities of Refuge does have lasting meaning for us.

According to the Rambam (Maimonides), every city in the Land of Israel was required to maintain roads and post signs throughout the land to direct people to the nearest City of Refuge. There was a positive obligation to make it as easy as possible for an accused murderer to get justice (Mishneh Torah, Hilchot Rotzeach 8:5).

We are required to do for the accused murderer what God does for us. Just as we must help the accused murderer find his or her way away from unfounded accusation and toward justice, God helps us find our way away from guilt and harsh self-judgment. God leads us on Yom Kippur toward a place of safety where we can fairly and compassionately find justice for ourselves.

God does not want us forever inflicting pain upon ourselves for the things we accuse ourselves of having done, or having failed to do. Rather, God gives us Yom Kippur, a day which is a City of Refuge, to sort out our feelings about ourselves, to recognize what we have done wrong and what we might, in the future, do better. God keeps the pathway clear and marks it with signs to help us find our way out of self-recrimination and toward reconciliation and peace.

The laws in this week's Torah portion about the Six Cities of Refuge remind us to deal kindly with ourselves and with others. We remember that when we are afflicted with guilt, we are given a chance, and shown the way, to escape from the sword we wield against ourselves.

Over and again, I am reminded that when you put in an inch of your spirit toward discovering holiness in your life, you are rewarded with a mile of delight. We sat on the beach to celebrate Shabbat with words, songs and soul, and we discovered that the effort was worthwhile and so much more. What are you willing to risk to experience a miracle?

ברוך אתה יי אלהינו מלך העולם, זוכר הברית ונאמן בבריתו וקים במאמרו

Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Source of all being, who remembers the covenant, is faithful to keep it, and who fulfills promises.

That's a conversation I had over and over as I talked to the ten kids from Temple Beit HaYam who are at Camp Coleman this summer. Yesterday, I visited the camp in northern Georgia, which is operated by the Union for Reform Judaism (URJ).

It makes you think…what other Jewish experience do we give our kids that makes them absolutely beg their parents for the chance to do it again? I can't think of even one.

Any serious conversation about creating joyful Judaism has to include Jewish summer camps. We take kids from congregations across the continent, and in four-week sessions, we show them that being Jewish can be exciting, energizing, spiritual, community-building, friendship-creating, and, most of all, fun. There is no better message to send to the people we hope to build the future of the Jewish people.

There are lots of statistics (if you're into that kind of thing) that make the same point. Compared to kids who do not attend Jewish summer camps, the kids who do grow up to be

You can quibble with the statistics, but I cannot question the pure excitement and joy I see on the faces of these kids. Camp gives them a chance to discover and create a Judaism that is kid-centered. For once, Judaism is not something given to them by parents, taught by their teachers, or enforced by synagogue rules. The Judaism kids experience at camp is truly their own, and they know it. The sheer intensity of it—with complete immersion in Judaism from morning to night—is worth a lifetime of positive feelings about being a Jew.

Parents can expect kids to come home from Jewish summer camp with a bit of a let down. Returning to the "real world" can be a disappointment after a summer of high-wire Jewish excitement. I always suggest to parents that they give their kids a chance to bring some of their camp Judaism back home with them. Let your child teach you how to celebrate Shabbat the way they did at camp. Take them to Temple services that feature the melodies they learned at camp. Make Judaism something that you do together as a family, the way that Judaism was part of your child's "camp family."

Not only has Jewish camping changed Jewish kids, it has changed Judaism. The next time you attend a service that features singable melodies delivered in a folk-song style, know that it would not exist without the influence of Jewish camping. The next time your rabbi talks about the spirituality of nature and outdoor experiences, know that he or she has been influenced by Jewish environmentalism that was nurtured in our camps. Whenever you see services that emphasize participation, intimacy, informality and joyful energy, you are witnessing the influence of Jewish summer camps on today's Jewish leaders—more than 70% of whom attended Jewish overnight camps as children.

Summer camps are helping North American Jews discover a new Judaism. Unlike the Judaism of my parents' and grandparents' generation, it is not a Judaism that focusses first on rote memorization, a response to antisemitism, or lamenting our people's past sorrows. Rather, it is a Judaism that is, first and foremost, about joy, spirituality, creativity, love, friendships, meaning, and—as Jacob would say—fun.

This week's Torah portion (Pinchas) picks up in the middle of a story that began at the end of last week's portion. It is a story that frightens us with its praise for a gruesome killing.

The women of Moab and Midian sought to defeat the Israelites by wooing their men into the worship of idols. This so enraged God that Moses feared his entire community would be wiped out by the plague God brought as punishment.

According to the story, one Israelite, a grandson of Aaron named Phinehas (or, Pinchas, in Hebrew), took immediate action. He saw a high-ranking Israelite man escorting a Midianite woman and immediately picked up a spear and "stabbed them both, the Israelite man and the woman through the belly" (Numbers 25:8).

The description is graphically violent and there can be no question about the sexual message of the image. It is as if Phinehas is saying, "If you wish to drive your 'spear' into that foreign woman's belly, I will spear the two of you together, literally." The Talmud even says that the man and woman were copulating at the time Phinehas killed them (B. Sanhedrin 82b). No subtlety there. Phinehas' fury is likened to the fervor of sexual passion.

For this deadly act, Phinehas is rewarded with the priesthood for himself and his descendants. God says, "I grant him My covenant of peace. A covenant of priesthood shall be his and descendants after him forever, for he acted passionately for his God and atoned for the Israelites" (Numbers 25:12-13).

There is no doubt that this is a deeply troubling story on multiple levels. It is wantonly chauvenistic. It condones horrific violence. For now, though, let us look at the central problem of a man who executes two people without any judicial process and, as a result, is treated as a hero. How do we make sense of that?

The ancient rabbis saw that Phinehas' merit was in his fire, his zealous passion to do the will of God. Yet, the rabbis also are wary of such fire. In the Talmud, the rabbis go so far as to say that the man Phinehas killed did have the right to defend himself. Had he killed Phinehas first, the rabbis say, he would not have been guilty of murder.

Phinehas acted outside the law, which can be defended only up to a point, even as an act of righteous fury. Curiously, the Talmud characterizes the case of Phinehas as a unique situation that should never be repeated. "Zealots may kill one who fornicates with Midian women," the rabbis say, "but this is a law that must not be taught" (B. Sanhedrin 82b).

So, what does that say about the Jewish attitude toward zealotry? It is good to be passionate about Judaism. It is good to have a fire within that drives you to a life of Torah. Yet, that fire can become destructive. The rabbis warn against crossing the line that turns zealotry into fanaticism—the point at which we start to use religion as an excuse for shaming, harming, and even killing people.

It is a concern that should not be too distant from our thoughts about religion in the modern world. Whether it is Moslem fanatics who fire missiles to kill innocent civilians in S'derot, or Christian fundamentalists who provoke the murder of doctors who perform abortions, deadly religious fanaticism is alive and well today. In the Jewish community, too, we have seen Ultra-Orthodox Jews attack and persecute other Jews for not being as "pious" as they believe themselves to be.

Jewish tradition says it is wrong. Our texts teach that zealotry, even for a cause motivated by Torah, has its limits. No one should teach that Torah permits or condones harming another for the sake of religious fervor.

And what of Phinehas' reward? Why is he given God's "covenant of peace"?

There may be an answer for that, too. Rabbi Daniel Landes, the Director and Rosh Yeshiva of the Pardes Institute in Jerusalem, suggests that the priestly covenant given to Phinehas is not a reward. Rather, Phinehas was enjoined, from that moment on, to have a relationship with God built only on peace. It is as if Phinehas was told to put down the sword of a soldier and, instead, to take up the peaceful life of priest.

This should be the joyful model for Jewish passion. Our zealotry for God is not measured in how we show ourselves to be holier than others. We find the true fire and ecstatic attachment to Torah and Jewish living in the choices we make that bring our souls to peace.

Sunday marks a minor Jewish fast day that you may never have heard about. The Fast of the Seventeenth of Tammuz is observed as the anniversary of the breach of the walls of Jerusalem by the Romans in the year 70 c.e. Some sources say that the same date also is the anniversary of the the day the Babylonians did the same thing in the year 586 b.c.e. Traditionally, Jews do not eat from the break of dawn to the end of dusk on this day to mourn the destruction of the Temple.

It is not surprising that most liberal Jews do not observe the Fast of Tammuz and do not even know that it exists. Reform Judaism, from its earliest time, rejected the idea that Jews should view the end of the Temple sacrifices as a cosmic catastrophe. The early reformers saw this historical event as a positive developments in the evolution of Judaism. The destruction of the Temple, said the founders of Reform Judaism, allowed our tradition to evolve away from superstitious animal sacrifices and toward becoming a religion of ideas, ethics and a deepening philosophical understanding of God.

Conservative Judaism, too, does not accept the idea that modern Jews should yearn for the rebuilding of the Temple. Instead, Conservative Jews observe the Fast of Tammuz, if at all, as a nostalgic remembrance of a bygone era of Judaism—one to which they do not wish to return.

I largely agree with these outlooks. I have no desire for Judaism to restore animal sacrifices or to rebuild the ancient Temple. Yet, I think there is deeper meaning in the Fast of Tammuz for us to rediscover and consider. Mourning on this day is not just about remembering Jewish history; it is also a practice of deepening Jewish spirituality.

According to a rabbinic legend, the walls of Jerusalem were broken on the seventeenth of Tammuz because it was the date on which Moses had smashed the tablets of the Ten Commandments in response to the sin of the Golden Calf. The Fast of Tammuz is a date for contemplating how our failures to live up to our highest ideals cause a rupture—a breach, if you will—in our relationship with God. The Fast of Tammuz reminds us of how broken we are individually in a world of brokenness.

The traditional haftarah reading for the afternoon of the Fast of Tammuz (also read on other fast days) is a passage from the prophet Isaiah that says, "Let the wicked give up their ways and the sinful turn away from their plans. Let them turn back to Adonai and God will pardon them" (Isaiah 55:7). At the same time that we acknowledge our broken state, we also declare the possibility of repair.

The tablets have been broken, but not the covenant that they represent. In fact, the very fact of our brokenness may be the thing that creates an opening in the wall for us to reach higher. No heart can feel so well as a heart that has been broken.

I will not be fasting on Sunday, but I will be thinking about those tablets—the ones that Moses shattered, and also the ones within my soul. The Fast of Tammuz is an opportunity to peer inside of ourselves, to break through the walls that separate us from our highest aspirations, and to remember to let the light shine from our broken hearts.

Welcome

This blog is about living a joyful Jewish life and bringing joy to synagogues and the Jewish community. Join the conversation by commenting on posts and sharing your experiences. For more on the topic, read the First Post.